


The Mess That We Made

by UnabashedBird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode Related, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnabashedBird/pseuds/UnabashedBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite Don's reappearance, Sam and Amelia choose to stay together. Dean's return from Purgatory complicates things, but Sam is determined to keep the normal life he's finally built for himself in Kermit.</p><p>But with Kevin on the run from Crowley and Dean eventually taking on the Trials, staying completely uninvolved doesn't feel like an option any more: Sam's done with hunting, but he won't turn his back on his friends and family. Not even when it means staring the worst possible loss in the face all over again.</p><p>Season 8 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN AU Festival](http://spnaufestival.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.
> 
> The masterpost for M14Mouse's gorgeous artwork can be found [here](http://m14mouse.livejournal.com/89636.html).
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta, [Liron_aria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Liron_aria/).
> 
> The title is a line from the song "[Flaws](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E36WU9Wzf4)" by Bastille.
> 
> The "major character death" is neither Sam nor Amelia, if anyone was worried about that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Amelia make a choice. Dean is angry. Sam tries to help anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter is the scene from "Citizen Fang" where Amelia walks in on Sam packing. After that is where the canon divergence begins, although there are a few lines from other points in season 8 scattered throughout.

Amelia isn’t home when Sam returns from the bar. He doesn’t know whether to hope that she’ll come back before he finishes packing. He doesn’t know whether he’ll be brave enough to stay and say goodbye in person if she doesn’t. He feels the tears gathering in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them spill, in case she comes in.

She does. “What are you doing?”

 _Just remember, this is what’s best for her. When you love someone, you do what’s best for them_. “I’m—“ he can hear the tears in his voice, so she probably can too. He clears his throat, tries again. “I’m leaving.”

“ _What_?” He sees understanding dawn on her face. “Don found you at the bar.”

He can see her working herself up, already pissed. He wishes he could be pissed at Don: it would make all this so much easier, so much clearer. He tries to derail her before she really takes off. “Amelia—“

“He threatened you.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Why would she assume . . . _no, don’t think about that. It’s grasping at straws_. “Amelia,” he can’t stop saying her name, “ _no_ , he didn’t threaten me. I—look, I’m just trying to do the right thing here.” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

“The _right thing_? This morning, you and I were the right thing, remember?”

He’s going to have to say it. Or at least, a version of it. Enough for her to understand what he’s trying to give her. “I know that you and Don deserve a chance, OK? And I think you know that, too. Just give him a chance. Like you gave me. I mean,” Sam can feel the tears threatening to spill over, and maybe he shouldn’t say this, but he can’t help it, he has to tell her, make her understand how much she means to him, which is exactly why he has to leave. “Amelia, you saved me.”

She folds her arms, hurt written across her face. She’s clearly not planning to let this go, to let him go, without a fight.

“So, what, now I should give up what I want so I can save Don?”

“No, of course not. I just meant—“

“Newsflash, Sam, Don had his chance.”

That pulls him up short.

“What do you mean? Did he say something to you? I—I didn’t think you’d talked yet.”

“We haven’t, and besides, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about how I was with the guy for years, how he was the only real relationship I ever had, and then he decides, without talking to me about it _at all_ , that he’s going to join the army, going to leave knowing full well that he might not come back. I mean, who does that? What does that say about the state our relationship was in? He left me. Neither one of us knew that’s what he was doing at the time, but that’s what it was. He left me, Sam, and I’ve been picking up the pieces ever since, and I don’t think I could’ve glued nearly as many of them back together without you. I didn’t save you, Sam. We crashed into each other and somehow made one almost-manageable mess out of two completely disastrous messes. I’m not your angel of mercy, Sam, I’m just a person. A person who wants you in my life. _You_ , not Don.”

God, she’s making this so much harder than it already was, just by standing there, being _her_ : being blunt and honest and letting it be other people’s problem if they can’t handle it. And before he can stop himself, because one of the beautiful things about her sandpaper personality is that it gives him permission to be just as blunt, to not filter, he says “Trust me, the last thing I would _ever_ think of you as is angelic.” OK, that may not be entirely true, but the ways in which she does, occasionally, resemble actual angels would require the kinds of explanations he can’t afford to give.

“So what then? Why say what you just said? Spell it out for me.”

“I just . . . Look. This would be so much easier if I could hate Don, believe me. But how can I claim to care about you while hating someone you loved? Someone at least a part of you still loves? And what he said, in the bar . . . he understands that it’s your choice. That you’re the only one who can choose what’s right for you. And please, please believe me when I say that, even after everything he’s done and everything he’s been through, he is much less of a mess than I am. And you deserve that, Amelia. You deserve someone who has a hope of not being a mess someday. I want that for you. So please, just . . . just let me do this. Let me do this for you. Let me help you glue this one last piece in place.”

“No.”

“Amelia—“

“No, Sam, _listen_ to me, for God’s sake! Maybe . . . _maybe_ you clearing off for a few days isn’t the worst thing in the world. I said I needed to clear my head, and I gotta admit, I probably can’t do that if we’re both in the same place. But don’t _leave_. Just . . . just go to the motel. Just go there, and I’ll call you. Please. Please don’t . . . please don’t let this decision be anything but mine. Unless . . . unless you’ve changed your mind since this morning? About what _you_ want?”

It hits him, then, what he almost did: the same thing Don did, the thing he’s had to fight against so often in his own life. He almost took her choice away because he assumed he knew best. The realization only serves to further convince him that, as awful as it will be, she should choose Don. If he has to stay in town a few extra days so she can figure that out, well, OK. He can at least do that. But at the same time . . .

“No. I haven’t changed my mind. And I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll go to the motel,” he tells her, reaching for his bag.

“Can you wait?” she asks. “Can you please just stay a little longer? Just . . . “ she leaves the thought unfinished, but Sam hears all the things she didn’t say. Just in case this is it. One last evening. Does she know what she’s asking?

“Of course. I’ll, uh . . . are you hungry?”

She smiles wanly. “Not for your cooking. That tub of ice cream in the freezer, on the other hand . . . “

“Sounds good. _Law and Order_?”

“Sounds good.”

Sam stays until Amelia is in bed for the night. He knows she isn’t asleep yet, but it somehow seems better, more right, that she should get to see him leave. He is too busy trying not to feel like his world is imploding on him all over again to notice the man standing across the street from the house, watching.

Two days go by, and it is almost like back when he’d first arrived in town. Only not at all: no injured Riot to care for, he has a job, and friends there who know something is wrong and always seem like they want to say something, but have no idea what the right thing to say is.

She calls on the morning of the third day. He’s sure this is it. He feels bad leaving Everett and his dad in the lurch, but they were doing OK without him, so he’s sure they’ll manage until they can find someone else.

What Amelia actually says doesn’t register at first. “Come home, Sam.”

“W-what?”

“Come home. It’s like you said: I’m not ready to give this up. Besides, Riot misses you.”

“I—Amelia, are you sure?”

“I’ve done nothing but think about it for two days, Sam. Two days on my own, thinking about what it’s like with you, what it used to be like with Don. I’m _damn_ sure.”

Against all odds, against all logic, against almost everything he believes to be true about himself, Sam is grinning into the phone. Home. Come home, Sam.

“OK. I’ll see you after work.”

“You’d better.”

 

He hesitates in front of the door. Should he knock? _Come home, Sam_. No. This is _their_ house. He opens the door and steps inside. Riot launches himself at Sam from where he was laying on the couch. Sam sets his bag down and crouches to return the greeting, rubbing Riot’s ears and back. “Hey, buddy,” he murmurs. “I missed you, too." He hears the radio playing in the kitchen, so he stands up and follows the music.

Amelia is slicing hot dogs into strips and laying them on top of a huge bowl of spaghetti. Sam leans against the door frame, watching her. She looks up with a smile. “Hey, stranger."

He smiles back. “Hey. So, uh, what’s with the gourmet?"

She grabs a spoon and flicks a few noodles at him. They fall short, and Riot darts in to lap them off the floor. “It’s symbolic,” she tells him.

“Of?"

“Of, we’re doing this. You and me, this place, this house. It’s not just because of circumstances anymore. We’re choosing this. This is first night food, this is the first night of us having other options and choosing each other anyway."

“You know it’s kind of disgusting, right?” he says, stepping towards her.

“Bite your tongue!"

“Nah. I like it better when you do that,” he says, and leans down to kiss her.

 

By the time they get up off the kitchen floor and put their clothes back on, even Amelia has to admit the now-cold spaghetti and hot dogs are a lost cause; she scrapes them into the trash while Sam orders pizza.

“So,” he begins hesitantly, “did you, uh—"

“Talk to Don?” she finishes for him.

“Yeah."

“Yep. He’s not happy, but he’ll deal. I mean, it sucks, and talking to him sucked, but he said he’d leave, and now you and me can get on with our lives."

“OK. Do you . . . want to—"

“Talk about the conversation with Don?” she finishes for him again, raising her eyebrows to check that she’s guessed correctly. He nods. “I don’t know, maybe. It’s . . . I just want to get past it, you know?"

“Yeah, I do. But sometimes talking is the only way to do that."

“Yeah, I know.” She walks over and leans against his chest, and he puts his arms around her.

“Just not tonight, OK?"

“OK,” he says, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. “But . . . I have to ask--”

“You want to know why you,” Amelia says, stepping back to look up at him.

Sam nods, forcing himself to meet her eyes. She reaches up and puts her hand on his face.

“I just . . . the thought of not . . . I just couldn’t.” She pauses, takes a deep breath, drops her hand from his face and grabs one of his hands to tow him to the couch. Once she’s sitting in his lap, she continues. “You saw me at my worst and somehow still saw _me_. I can tell you all the crazy shit that goes through my head and it’s not just that you don’t judge me, it’s that you get it. You’re as screwed up as I am, but you’re solid, too. You’re something I can ram up against and I know it won’t break you. You eat my crappy cooking and watch crappy TV with me and you do it with that soft little smile and I just can’t lose you, OK? I can’t lose you because you’re good and smart and you _listen_ and you _understand_ and you like walks in the park and--”

She stops, reaches out, and brushes away the tears about to fall from Sam’s eyes. She rests her forehead against his, her arms around his neck and his around her waist, and they sit like that until the pizza arrives.

 

They spend the next few weeks getting the rest of the house unpacked and organized, taking care of the yard, and quietly being in each other’s space as much as they can. Sam doesn’t know where Amelia and Don’s wedding album disappears to, and he doesn’t ask.

It’s Amelia who suggests they have a barbeque for the neighbors, and that’s when Sam finally accepts that this is his life, his home. He is with Amelia Richardson, this house is their home, and they’re going to make friends with their neighbors. He hadn’t known he’d been holding back from accepting this reality, so strange to him by virtue of its normality, but he’s all in now. They’re all in.

The barbeque is great: Lazero and Yesenia next door are getting a puppy soon, and could they have some playdates with Riot to help socialize her? Yes, they’d love to help Sam work on his Spanish in exchange! Luanne from across the street has a seventeen-year-old daughter who’s working on college applications, do they have any advice? The Ortega’s kids are delightfully underfoot.

It’s so normal, so much of what he dreamed for himself so many lifetimes ago, Sam is nearly overwhelmed. But Amelia is there, and Riot is there, and by the end of the party the neighbors have become much more than just the people living in the nearby houses. It’s a good feeling.

A few days later, Everett comes to find Sam where he’s fixing a leaky faucet in one of the rooms. “There’s a guy here to see you. Says his name’s Dean?"

Sam freezes. No. Not possible. Except, of course, that it is.

“Sam?”

He must have let the silence drag on too long while he tried to figure out how to react. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s . . . yeah. I just need to finish up here."

Everett is staring at him. “Listen, Everett, is it OK if I take the rest of the day off? I . . . if it’s who I think it is, we have a lot of catching up to do."

“Yeah, sure, man. Whatever you need."

“Thanks."

“So . . . I’ll tell him you’ll be out in a minute?"

“Yeah, that’d be good."

“OK."

Sam concentrates on taking deep, steadying breaths as he makes the final adjustments and packs up his tools. He puts them away, washes his hands, and heads for the office.

But he doesn’t have to go that far, because Dean is in the parking lot, leaning against the Impala. Sam surreptitiously grabs his left hand with his right and squeezes the old scar, but Dean is still there, still solidly, really there.

Sam approaches. “Dean?"

“Heya, Sammy,” he says, and flings holy water and borax all over Sam.

“Geez, Dean, what—“ he is cut off when Dean grabs him, slams him against the car, and cuts his arm with a silver knife. “Ow! C’mon, man, I’m me!"

Dean steps back. “I know that now. Here, do me,” and he holds out the bottles and the knife.

“No. You already splashed yourself, and the handle on that knife is silver, too. Besides, I don’t think anyone but you could’ve found me here—I covered my tracks."

“Dammit, Sammy!” and Dean splashes and cuts himself anyway. Sam takes the opportunity to take in his brother, _here_ , but . . . there’s something different, something about the way Dean stands, about the stark lines of his face. Wherever he’s been, Sam doesn’t think it was nice. But . . . oh, please, God - or whoever - no.

“Well, now that that’s settled,” Dean says, setting down the bottles and putting away the knife, “let’s do this."

“Do wha—“ Sam starts to ask, but then Dean grabs him and pulls him into a hug and there is no mistaking that leather and whiskey smell: Dean is really here. Sam hugs back, a smile breaking over his face. And if Dean doesn’t hug as tight as he once did, and if the lines of his body feel harder, tauter with muscle than they used to be, well, it’s been a year of who-knows-what for him; Dean will tell Sam when he’s ready. For now, all that matters is he’s _here_. After a moment Sam steps back so he can see Dean’s face, keeping a hand on Dean’s shoulder until Dean gives it the stink-eye.

“You’re alive. Dean, how the hell are you alive?” And what kind of hell will there be to pay for it this time?, a part of him can’t help but wonder.

“Well, I wasn’t dead, Sammy.” There is something in Dean’s voice. Something dangerous.

“Well, uh, can I take you out to lunch and you can tell me about it? It’s a nice day, we could go to the park . . . “ He trails off, because Amelia’s car is pulling into the lot. Oh boy.

“Hey,” she calls, getting out. “Who’s your friend?"

“Uh, this is Dean. Dean, this is Amelia. My girlfriend."

“Wait, Dean as in _Dean_?” she asks, eyebrows raised, while Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah."

“Some month we’re having,” she says, and holds out her hand to shake Dean’s.

“Hi,” is all Dean says, shaking hands as briefly as possible.

Amelia turns back to Sam. “Well, I will leave you two to catch up, then. I assume you’ll be bringing him home for dinner?"

Sam turns to Dean, eyebrows raised in hopeful query.

“Sounds great,” Dean says, and Sam tenses at his tone of voice.

“Great,” Amelia says, smiling in a way that tells Sam she’s picked up on the strain between the brothers. “I’ll pick up some steaks and fire up the grill."

“Sounds amazing,” Sam reassures her, and leans down to kiss her goodbye.

“There’s a place you’ll like in walking distance,” Sam tells Dean as Amelia returns to her car, looking over her shoulder at them in concern.

“Fine,” Dean says. “Lead the way."

They set out, and once they’re clear of the parking lot Sam asks, “So if you weren’t dead, where were you?"

“Purgatory."

 _Shit_. “And Cas? Was he with you?"

“He was there, but he wasn’t exactly with me for most of it."

“What does that mean?"

“I think it’s my turn to ask some questions, actually."

Here it comes. “OK, shoot."

“What the fucking hell happened to you this last year, Sam? I come back, and you don’t answer your phones, so I assume the worst. Why else would they all be at Rufus’ cabin with a bunch of messages from Kevin asking for help?” Sam flinches. “I mean, did you even try to find me after killing Dick zapped my ass to God’s armpit, or did you just decide that now you were free of me, it was a good time to get lucky?” Dean’s voice drips venom and rage, and Sam wonders if there’s anything true he can say that will appease him even a little.

“No, Dean, it wasn’t like that at all! You and Cas just vanished, I thought you were dead, I thought I’d lost you for good this time. And you know we agreed, we agreed we had to let each other be if that happened, we had to try to move on. So I got the Impala fixed up, dropped most of my stuff off at Rufus’ cabin, and I drove. And, uh,” he pauses. If anything, Dean will be even less thrilled about Riot than he is about Amelia. Fortunately, “There’s the restaurant. Want to sit inside or out?"

Dean glares at him, recognizing a stalling tactic when he sees it. “Outside."

They sit. Sam pretends to peruse the menu so he can avoid Dean’s glare.

“So?” Dean spits, once they order.

“So, what?"

“So, you rolled into this town and it was, what, love at first sight?"

“What? No.” Sam chuckles, remembering those first conversations with Amelia. “She actually thought I was a creepy drifter, possibly a serial killer. Which, technically—"

“Why’d you stay, then?"

Sam sighs. “I hit a dog."

“And?"

“He was a stray. Amelia’s a vet, she was on duty at the clinic I took him to. I was just going to leave him once I found out he would pull through, but she kinda bullied me into agreeing to take him. So then I was just going to stay until he healed up, find him a home, and move on. But then Everett’s dad was sick, so I ended up working at the motel, and then Amelia and I talked more, and, I don’t know, everything just sort of happened. I found us a place—we actually only just finished getting moved in a few weeks ago; it took a while to get her stuff, what with both of us working."

“So, you quit."

“Quit what?"

“Hunting. The family business. The thing that makes us who we are."

“Yeah, ‘cause nothings says family quite like the whole family being dead. And, I don’t know, maybe hunting makes you who you are, and that’s fine, but I’ve always wanted to be more than that. Hunting was something I did, and yeah, it has a lot to do with who I am, but not everything. I never wanted that."

“So you did decide to take advantage of me being gone."

“No! And Dean, as far as I knew, you weren’t ‘gone’ you were _dead_. So I honored our agreement. What is so wrong with that?"

“I don’t know, maybe that I _wasn’t_ dead!” Dean snarls, slamming his hand on the table. “Maybe that we’ve ignored that in the past because we can’t bear to be without each other! Maybe that I spent a fucking _year_ fighting for my life while you played house!"

Dean has to bite back the rest of his tirade, because the waitress arrives with their food.

“And what about Kevin?” he hisses once she leaves. “He was our responsibility, and you couldn’t even answer the damn phone." Dean picks up his burger and tears into it.

Guilt washes through Sam. Maybe he should have kept the phones. “So have you seen him?” he asks after he swallows his mouthful of salad.

“Who?” Dean says around the half-chewed bite of burger in his mouth.

“Kevin."

Dean swallows. “Yeah, I’ve seen him."

Sam waits, but Dean just squirts a huge pile of ketchup onto his plate and starts on his french fries. “And?” Sam finally asks, growing annoyed.

“And, Crowley held him in a warehouse and had him translate a different Word of God tablet, one about demons, but it told him how to make demon bombs so he escaped after a couple of months, then tried to call you but you weren’t answering so he was just on his own. I managed to track him down after I listened to his voicemails, we went to see his mom, the demon tablet got stolen, some mooks tried to sell it at an auction, shit happened, Crowley got the tablet. And now Kevin and his mom are in the wind because they don’t know what’s good for them. Oh, right, I almost forgot: Kevin says the demon tablet had instructions on closing the gates of Hell forever."

Sam can feel his guilt mounting. Maybe if he’d taken Kevin’s calls . . . He thinks back to the weeks after he hit Riot, when the haze of grief began to lift and he’d started to wonder if he should hunt again. He remembers getting as far as finding a case, then realizing the long drive would be bad for the injured dog, and choosing the responsibility in front of him over the pseudo-obligation of hunting. The world didn’t end when he was at Stanford; the only reason it got so close was because he got back in. No, there was no way of knowing what would have happened if he’d tried to help Kevin.

“OK, so Crowley has the tablet but no way to read it. Kevin would clearly rather take care of himself, and that’s his choice to make. I’m sorry I underestimated him and wasn’t there to help him out, but the truth is, you’re wrong about him being our responsibility. His life got bulldozed by the supernatural, and we know what that’s like, and God knows I’m all for helping other people through that if we can, but none of what happened to him before we took down the Leviathans was actually our fault."

“Except for the Leviathans being in this world in the first place."

“That was Cas, not us. We tried to stop him, remember?" Sam isn’t entirely sure where his arguments are coming from: he’s certainly never sat down and hashed it out to himself. But they ring true, and for some reason he thinks of Amelia saying “I can’t lose you” on the night they chose each other over . . . what? Old habits?

“What are you saying?"

 _That there’s a woman who says she can’t lose me, and my responsibility to not put her through that if I can help it is the most important one I have right now, because I love her_. “I’m saying that what happened to Kevin sucks, but it was never our responsibility, and neither was what happened to him after Sucrocorp. I was alone, Dean. I was completely alone, and I ran from everything because I had to. If I ever see Kevin again I will apologize to him on bended knee for not getting his messages, but . . . what I did wasn’t wrong. It just . . . was."

“Are you listening to yourself?” Dean asks in disbelief. “How is running away from everything, letting people die, letting Kevin be on his own, not wrong?"

“Dean, people die every day for all kinds of reasons. Is it my fault that people die of cancer because I’m not working in a lab trying to find a cure? Is it my fault that people die from starvation or waterborne diseases in other countries because I’m not working in development? Is it my fault—"

“It’s not the same and you know it!"

“Yes, Dean, it _is_ the same. I don’t owe it to the world to hunt. There have always been monsters, just like there’s always been disease and hunger and all the other things that kill people what seems like before their time. I’ve hunted for most of my life, first with you and Dad when I didn’t have a choice as a kid, then with you after they killed Jess. And now I’m done. I have a normal life, and I’m not giving it up." _I can’t do that to Amelia,_ won’t _do that to her. Not after everything._

Dean stares in disbelief. “You selfish bastard.” He throws down his napkin and stands up.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks, dreading the answer.

“To do my job!” Dean hurls over his shoulder as he storms off.

Sam quickly throws some cash on the table and hurries after Dean.

“Dean, wait!” Dean doesn’t stop, so Sam jogs a little and quickly catches up. “Dean,” he tries, matching his brother’s strides, but Dean doesn’t even look at him. “Do you want to take the Impala?” he ventures.

That gets him a look, at least. “Oh, you mean _my_ car? Wow, how generous of you, to offer to return _my_ car to me."

Sam stops. “You know what, fuck you, Dean."

That finally pulls Dean up short. “Come again?"

“You heard me. The Impala isn’t yours, it’s _ours_. Just because you fetishize it doesn’t make it more yours than mine. I’ve taken good care of it, and it’s helped with the grief, having something I know you love. I don’t have to give it back to you, especially since it would be more of an inconvenience to me than to you if I do. I was really happy to see you, to find out you’re alive, and you’ve done nothing but yell at me and insult me and question my decisions for the past forty-five minutes. I mean, I’m getting that Purgatory was awful, and I’m sorry for that. So be pissed, be whatever, but just . . . just try to see it from my perspective for like two seconds."

“Hmm, let’s see, Sammy’s point of view. OK: hunting sucks, I care more about chasing tail than saving people’s lives, screw my brother and screw the world. How’d I do?"

Dean reducing Amelia to “tail” is the last straw. “Yeah, like I said, fuck you, Dean,” Sam snaps, then lengthens his stride and storms past Dean. When he reaches the Impala, he begins pulling out everything of his and Amelia’s. When he’s done, he turns to find Dean watching him in confusion. He pulls the keys off his keyring and throws them to Dean. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Can I have the keys to whatever you came here in?"

Dean unlocks an old Saturn parked a few cars over and pulls out his bag, tossing Sam the keys as he storms past him without a word.

“Dean, wait,” Sam says, pulling out a his notebook and pen. Dean stops but doesn’t turn. Sam quickly scribbles down some information, then rips out the page and walks over to hand it to Dean. “It’s my address and phone number. You’re always welcome if you need a place to crash, or if you want to call and talk."

Dean crumples the paper and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Don’t go like this, Dean,” Sam says softly. He can’t help it: Dean is his brother, and he missed him so much, and he doesn’t want things to be this way. Besides, whether he’s willing to admit it or not, Dean clearly needs help figuring out how to deal with what happened to him in Purgatory.

“This is your choice, not mine,” Dean snaps, climbs into the Impala, and drives away.

Sam goes home, gets Riot, and takes him to the park to try to clear his head. He feels shaky and faintly nauseous, and realizes he’s having an adrenaline crash. Riot picks up on his mood and is more interested in petting and snuggles than chasing the frisbee, so Sam gives up and cuddles him back, getting out his phone to call Amelia. He gets her voicemail. “Hey, uh, Dean’s not coming to dinner. I’m in the park with Riot, and if you’re able to maybe get away early, that would be . . . you know. Either way, I’ll see you later. Love you."

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, trying to sort through what he feels, before Amelia turns up and sits down next to him.

“Hey. I hope you didn’t leave anything important."

“Slow day. But I would’ve come anyway: you sounded pretty messed up on the phone. Roberta will call me if there’s an emergency. You wanna tell me what happened?"

“I . . . he just. I mean I thought I was over the rose-colored glasses thing, especially after that night where we got drunk and yelled all the things about Dean and Don that pissed us off at the stars."

She smiles, remembering.

“But I didn’t expect . . . and he’s been through some serious crap this past year, so it’s not like he needs to be put together or anything, but . . . "

“Sam,” she interrupts his rambling. “ _What happened_?"

“I think he hates me,” Sam says softly. “Except that’s not right; I think it would be easier if he did, but Dean could never be that pissed off at someone he hates. But he thinks I let him down, thinks I abandoned him. He thinks I’m doing the wrong thing, staying here instead of going back on the road with him. And when I wouldn’t just give in and say he was right, he left. I let him take the Impala, told him he was always welcome to come crash, because I miss him so damn much and I don’t want things to be like this. He didn’t care."

Amelia presses herself against his side, leans her head on his shoulder, and rubs his back in slow, soothing circles. He rests his head against hers. “Well, Dean’s wrong, and being a jackass on top of it. If he can’t understand why you have just as much of a right to live your life as he does to live his, I don’t know, maybe you’re better off apart."

“But I miss him,” Sam says, voice breaking. Amelia reaches over and wraps her arms around his waist, and he wraps his around her, and they sit like that, holding each other.

“Want to hear about my talk with Don now?” she asks after a while.

Sam smiles into her hair, knowing she’s distracting him. “Sure." This is what they do: if one of them is spiraling, the other finds a way to pull them out of their head. If they’re both spiraling, they drink and yell at the stars together.

She pulls away from him a little, grabs the frisbee, and throws it for Riot, gathering her thoughts. It’s a terrible throw, and the frisbee wobbles through the air a short distance before bouncing to the ground, but Riot dutifully trots after it anyway. However, when he gets back, he very deliberately drops it in Sam’s lap.

“Traitor,” Amelia says, ruffling Riot’s ears. Sam takes the frisbee and throws it: it flies fast and smooth, and Riot sprints after it, leaping up to catch it in midair. Sam throws it again when Riot brings it back.

“I asked Don to meet me at Weston’s for breakfast on that third morning. I’d made up my mind by then, but I wanted to have everything, I don’t know, settled I guess before I told you. I think he expected . . . I mean, I believe what you told me about what he said in the bar, but I don’t think it really occurred to him that I would choose you," she tells him.

Sam grunts noncommittally, throws the frisbee for Riot.

“He was watching the house,” Amelia says softly, eyes forward. Sam turns sharply to stare at her. “Or at least, it sounded like he was. He knew you left and hadn’t been back, and it’s not like I was really talking about it, and I figured you would’ve mentioned it if you saw him around the motel. So he was watching the house.”

Sam suddenly feels very capable of hating Don. Well, maybe not hate, but definitely something a lot less rosy than what he felt before.

“What?” Amelia asks.

“What do you mean, what?” Sam obliges Riot, who has been patiently waiting for him to throw the frisbee again.

“You’re giving off . . . vibes,” she says, staring him down.

“Oh. I just . . . watching the house kinda sounds like something an entitled asshole would do, is all,” he admits.

She smiles grimly. “My thoughts exactly.”

“So Dean’s not the only one to . . .”

“Fail to live up to the way he was remembered? Not so much.”

Sam tightens his arm around her. “What a mess.”

She leans against his shoulder. “Good thing that’s our specialty.”

That night Sam gets on his computer and sees whether he can find anything about the Trans; he knows Dean is looking, and has a few tricks they learned from Charlie up his sleeve, but Sam has always been better with computers, so there’s a chance he’ll find something Dean missed.

“Oh, no,” he says aloud, when he finds the ad on Craigslist. “Oh, Mrs. Tran, you didn’t."

“What?” Amelia calls from the living room.

“Nothing,” he answers, “just an acquaintance doing something they shouldn’t."

He responds to the ad: “This is Sam Winchester. You don’t have to contact me or tell me where you are or anything, but _please_ do _not_ get in bed with witches. There are a few good ones out there, yes, but I don’t think those are the kind you’re likely to find on Craigslist. But if you do want to contact me, I might be able to find you both a more comfortable place to hide. And Kevin, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get your messages. If you’re interested in help, but not from me, I know a guy.” He supplies Garth’s contact information as well as his own and hopes for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is the middleman, Amelia learns the truth, and Dean does the Trials.

Over the next few weeks, Sam keeps taking out his phone and getting halfway through dialing Dean’s number before stopping himself; every time he checks his email, he opens a draft, types Dean’s address in the “to” bar, and stares at it for a while before deleting it. Dean will call him if he wants to talk. On the other hand, Sam is well aware that, despite the fact that it’s Dean’s turn to make a move, Dean is probably telling himself that Sam is the one who needs to initiate contact.

Amelia sees Sam struggling and arranges her schedule so she’s home when he is as much as possible, asking him to watch Netflix with her, read to her, would he like to sign up for a cooking class with her?

It’s been a long time since Sam has felt so loved.

He gets a call from Garth one day. “Hey, Sam, first of all, I have to say, I sure am glad you’re OK. What with you and Dean disappearin’ at the same time all the Levis lost their get up and go, none of us were sure what happened to you. Anyway, it took some convincing before they said I could call you, but I just thought you should know the Trans are all right."

“Really? That’s great to hear, Garth."

“Ain’t the fanciest accommodations, but it’s safer than houses and warded up the wazoo."

“Thanks, Garth."

“Hey, Sam?"

“Yeah?"

“For what it’s worth, there’s nothing wrong with what you did as far as I can see. Sometimes we just need to take care of ourselves, and that’s not a crime."

“You’ve talked to Dean, haven’t you?"

“Nope, just Kevin. Why?"

“No reason. Forget I said anything."

“OK, hombre.”

Sam chuckles. “Talk to you later, Garth."

“You bet."

Sam breathes a deep sigh of relief, then decides he finally has an adequate reason to give in to his desire to call Dean.

The phone goes to voicemail. “This is Dean, leave me a message."

“Hey, it’s, uh, it’s Sam. I just thought I’d make sure you knew that the Trans are safe. I put them in contact with Garth, and he’s got them set up in a safe house or something. I don’t know the details. Anyway, that’s all. I hope you're OK."

He leaves the voicemail on all Dean’s phones that he still has the numbers to, trying to convince himself that it’s just to make sure Dean gets it, and not because he’s hoping Dean will eventually pick up. All he gets in response is a text from Dean’s main phone: “message received so quit calling.” Well, at least he’s alive and kicking enough to be annoyed.

Sam is shocked when, a few weeks after that, Cas shows up.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says in his straightforward way when Sam answers the door. Sam is suddenly very, very grateful that Amelia is out with friends.

“Cas? But . . . Dean said . . . well, not much, actually, before . . ."

“Yes, I am aware of your fight. I do not believe a day has gone by without Dean mentioning it, and although he constantly reassures Benny and I that he will no longer talk about it, he has yet to keep that promise. May I come in?"

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” Sam says, opening the door and leading Cas to the couch. “Who’s Benny?"

“The vampire who helped Dean escape Purgatory. I believe you and he would get along. He is a good man who overcame his nature and ceased drinking live humans before being killed by his own kind and sent to purgatory. He seems to be able to keep some of your brother’s worst tendencies in check."

So someone else was . . . Sam can’t quite halt the train of thought before it hits - _in his place_.

“OK, so Dean’s hunting with a vampire. And you?"

“I am with them, at least for now. Though I expect Dean will insist I leave when he learns what I have done."

“And what’s that?"

Cas reaches into his coat and removes something wrapped in cloth. He pulls back one of the layers, revealing a tablet. “We were recently able to retrieve the demon tablet from Crowley. I believe we should get it to Kevin, who is its rightful keeper. Dean insists that we only do so if Kevin agrees to collaborate with us and keep us informed of his location and activities."

Sam grimaces. Yeah, that sounds like Dean. “So, why bring it to me instead of straight to Kevin?"

“I tried to find the prophet, but wherever he is seems to be warded against angels. We cannot find him, either."

 _Rock on, Garth_. “So, you want me to pass it along?"

“If you would be willing."

“Sure thing, Cas,” Sam says, reaching out to accept the tablet.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and is gone with a flutter of wings.

 

“One more time,” Amelia says, arms folded.

“There’s this kid, Kevin who got involved in some of the same stuff my brother and I did."

“Which you won’t tell me the details of because you think I’ll think you’re crazy."

“Right. So there’s this thing that will help him do something important, and some very bad people had it, but Dean and his friends just got it back."

“But Dean’s being a stubborn jackass and playing the ‘my way or the highway’ card."

“Yeah. So, since I know how to get ahold of the guy who knows where Kevin is, our friend Cas brought me the thing to pass on to Kevin."

“Which is why you need to leave right now to go to a sketchy-sounding meet-up and you won’t be back for a couple of days."

“That’s it in a nutshell."

“Remind me again how you managed to be surprised that I thought you were creepy back when we were first getting to know each other?"

Sam smiles, kisses her swiftly, and finishes packing.

Garth’s safehouse, it turns out, isn’t so much a house as it is a boat. Sam chuckles when he sees the name, remembering Garth’s oddly effective sock puppet.

Garth greets him with a hug and a smile. Sam wonders whether the hat Garth wears is a genuine Bobby or just an excellent imitation.

“Come on in,” Garth says. “They’re eager and waiting.”

Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Not everyone holds a grudge the way Dean does,” Garth says.

Sam blinks.

The interior is much nicer than the outside suggests, and Sam suspects it’s mostly Linda’s doing.

“Sam, this is Linda, Linda, Sam. Sam and Kevin, you two already know each other, of course,” Garth says by way of introduction.

Linda and Sam shake hands. “Thanks for the tip about witches,” she says, her grip firm. “From everything I’ve learned, you really saved our bacon.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam says. “This place looks great.”

“All things considered,” she adds, arching an eyebrow.

Sam smiles, relaxing a little, and she winks.

“Hey, Sam,” Kevin says, approaching. “I hear you have something for me?”

Sam pulls the wrapped tablet out of his bag and passes it to Kevin. “Listen, Kevin--”

“Water under the bridge, dude,” Kevin interrupts.

“Seriously?”

Kevin looks up at him then, really looks at him, and what he asks isn’t what Sam expected. “Is it true you got out? That you have a dog and a house and a girlfriend and a normal job that involves no monsters at all?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s . . . but Kevin, I should’ve--”

“No, man. I mean, I hated you for a while, but if you got out, even after everything, then that means I can get out. So stay for dinner, sleep in whatever motel you checked into, and go home to your normal life so I can keep thinking it’s actually possible.”

Sam looks at Kevin, really seeing him for the first time. The poor kid is so much like him: he didn’t ask for this, it was put on him, and all he wants is out. But he’s got his mom, and Sam suspects that a woman who can jump into this world, hide from demons, figure out how to put an (admittedly ill-advised) ad for a witch on Craigslist, and get a crappy boat to feel this homey is more than a match for whatever tries to get between her son and the life he wants.

“Can do,” Sam tells him. “But you gotta promise me you’ll try not to obsess, OK? Because believe me, no matter how good and important your goal is, tunnel vision gets you nowhere good.”

It’s Linda who answers. “Don’t worry. My son is getting out of this alive, human, and functional, and with helping close down Hell forever as a feather in his cap.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, and Kevin shrugs helplessly. Sam grins.

Kevin will be fine.

 

A couple months later, Cas arrives at the door. Amelia is home this time.

“Sam, you need to come. Dean is asking for you."

He can hear it in Cas’ voice: something is wrong. “Why? What happened?"

Cas glances past Sam to Amelia, who is watching them, brow furrowed. Sam shoots her an apologetic look and follows Cas outside.

“The spell to close the gates of Hell involves a series of trials, which Dean has undertaken. He is about to begin the third and final one, and he wishes to see you before he does."

Cold dread washes over Sam. “Cas, these trials: what happens when Dean finishes them?"

Cas avoids his eyes. “Cas!"

“Dean will die. If he completes this trial, the gates of Hell will close, sealing every demon inside forever, and Dean will die."

Sam closes his eyes, fighting nausea. “And does Dean know this?” he asks, opening his eyes to watch Cas carefully.

“Yes. He knew when he agreed to undertake the trials. He has been rather . . . emphatic about one life in exchange for all those that will be saved being more than worth the exchange. It has not been easy. The trials are more than just tasks. They have weakened Dean physically, made him ill, forced him to reflect on his life and his choices. He has changed, Sam."

Sam can’t tell from the way Cas describes it whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but he knows one thing without doubt: Dean is going to die, and he wants to see Sam before he does. More than that: he doesn’t actually think that Sam is so far gone that he would deny Dean such a request.

“Do you know how long this trial is supposed to take?” he asks Cas.

“Eight hours from start to finish. I do not know how long Dean will wish to talk to you before he begins."

“Right. Let me tell Amelia and pack a few things, then we can go."

“I want to come with you,” she says when he tells her he needs to go see Dean for a couple of days.

“Amelia—"

“I’m tired of being out of the loop on all this cloak and dagger stuff. We decided to be in this together, Sam, but ever since your brother showed up, it hasn’t felt like that. And don’t feed me any bullshit about it being for my own safety or how I’ll think you’re crazy or something. I saw your brother, I see your weird trench coat friend. I want to come, and I want to be there for you."

Sam stares at her, and thinks about how much better it will be to face this with her, to finally be able to come clean. And yeah, there’s a chance she’ll run screaming, but he really doubts it: Amelia isn’t the type.

“OK,” he tells her. “Pack what you need for a couple of days. I’ll check with Cas that it’s OK to bring Riot, too."

“And that there’s enough room in the car,” she calls after him. Sam grimaces. He doesn’t think that’s going to be a problem with their mode of transport.

“I don’t like it,” Cas objects.

“Tough,” Sam says, folding his arms.

“This is not an ideal situation for introducing someone to the supernatural."

“Right, because ideal situations actually exist."

“Sam—"

“This isn’t up for debate, Cas."

Cas sighs. “Fine. But I expect you to deal with the consequences."

“Not a problem."

Amelia emerges from the bedroom with Riot on his leash. “Everything OK?” she asks.

“Yep,” Sam tells her.

“So, we should load up the car, right?"

“About that,” Sam starts, but Cas reaches out and touches their foreheads before Sam can finish preparing Amelia for angelic teleportation.

“What the hell?” she gasps, looking around. They’re outside, next to a deserted road near what, based on the lights in the distance, appears to be a small town. Sam puts a supportive hand under her elbow.

“Cas is an angel. He just teleported us to—where are we, Cas?"

“Lebanon, Kansas, just outside the Men of Letters bunker that your brother and Kevin have made their base of operations. Follow me."

“I’m sorry, did you say angel?” Amelia demands as they follow Cas through a door built into the hill by the road.

“Yeah,” Sam says, suppressing his own questions so he can answer some of Amelia’s as they pause in a dimly-lit entryway. “Basically, nearly everything you’ve ever heard stories about going bump in the night is real or based on something real, and so are angels and demons. There are people out there, hunters, who know what they are and how to fight them. That’s what Dean and I were raised to be, what we were. I never really wanted to be a part of it, but when I was a kid I didn’t have a choice, and then once I got back in after leaving Stanford, what with one thing and another I never felt like I had other options then, either."

“My God, no wonder you were worried I’d think you were nuts."

“Yeah, especially since . . . you know what, never mind. That’s a story for later."

“Bet there’s a lot of those. So who are the Men of Letters and why do they have a bunker?"

“No idea. Cas?"

“They were an organization devoted to the study of the supernatural. They saw themselves as detached observers, rationally chronicling the parts of the world most people did not believe in.” Cas goes on to recount his and Dean’s discovery of the organization, which apparently involved time travel, a Knight of Hell, and Sam and Dean’s paternal grandfather.

“I’d say from the look on your face that that’s nuts even by your standards,” Amelia says when Cas finishes.

“Yeah,” Sam replies weakly.

“We should go in,” Cas points out. “I’m sure Linda and Kevin will be willing to answer whatever other questions Amelia has, and Sam, you should go see Dean."

“Yeah, OK. Lead the way, Cas."

They go down a short hallway, then come out onto a landing overlooking a large room.

“Wow,” says Sam.

“Yes, it is impressive. I believe you would enjoy the trove of information and lore to be found here,” Cas replies. Sam isn’t sure how to respond to that.

They follow Cas down the stairs and deeper into the bunker, towards what is clearly a library. Kevin and Linda are seated at one of the tables.

“You’re back!” Kevin says, jumping up. “Hey, Sam."

“Hey, Kevin. How are you?"

“Can’t complain, especially considering . . ." he trails off.

Right. Because Dean is . . . fuck.

“Is that Amelia?” Kevin asks.

“Yeah. Amelia, this is Kevin and Linda, his mom."

“Hello,” Linda greets, standing as well. “I’m guessing you’re new to all this?” she says to Amelia.

“Yeah, I found out angels were real like two minutes ago when trenchcoat here touched my forehead and I was outside this bunker instead of in my living room."

“Well, have a seat and we’ll answer all the questions we can. Dean’s in his room,” she directs at Cas. “Benny’s with him."

“Thank you,” he says. Sam looks at Amelia, about to ask if she’s OK, but she glares at him and makes a shooing motion, so he turns quickly to follow Cas.

They go down a hallway lined with doors, stopping at one of them. Cas knocks lightly, and a big bearded man comes out.

“Well now, you must be Sam,” he says in a soft southern drawl, holding out his hand.

“And you’re Benny,” Sam says, shaking the proffered hand.

“Guilty as charged. Now, I don’t know how much Cas has told you, but you need to be prepared. Dean, well, he’s different. And I gotta say, when it comes to his attitude it’s definitely an improvement, but . . . he ain’t in good shape. We’re all used to it, more or less, but you haven’t seen him since before he started the trials, so just know that what you see really is what passes for normal for him these days."

“And you . . . you’re on board with this? Him finishing the trials?” Sam asks.

Benny cocks his head, scrutinizing Sam. “It’s his life, and he’s doin’ what he’s doin’ with open eyes. From what I’ve seen, he ain’t wrong about it bein' worth the sacrifice. Do I wish it weren’t my friend? Sure. But honestly, he needed to find some purpose or other. Part of me thinks maybe him goin’ out this way is for the best."

“What do you mean?"

“He’s been pretty messed up since you had your fight. Personally I think he was near completely in the wrong when it comes to you, but he was also sufferin’. Truth is, I’m not sure he knows who he is in this world if he ain’t huntin’ with you. Not sayin’ it’s healthy, just that it is. But he got some of his sparkle back once he started these trials, ‘cause at least he knew what he was doin’ and why he was doin’ it, know what I mean?"

“Yeah,” Sam says, feeling sick. “Listen, Benny, thank you. Thank you for having his back and . . . being there for him when I wasn’t. I should’ve—"

“Oh, now, don’t you start too. Especially not before you hear what your brother wants to tell you.” Sam’s brow furrows in confusion. “You’ll see. Now get on in there."

Sam opens the door and steps inside. Dean is propped up in a bed, wrapped in several blankets. Sam can’t help but stare: Dean’s skin is an unhealthy pallor, his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his face is thinner than Sam’s ever seen it. Benny wasn’t kidding. And this was _normal_? What the hell were these trials _doing_ to Dean? Well, besides . . . oh, right.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says softly from the bed.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam continues to hover by the door, not sure whether he should approach.

“Come sit,” Dean says, indicating the chair by the bed. Sam does. “They bring you up to speed?"

“More or less. Men of Letters, huh?"

“Yeah. Wish you could’ve met Henry; you would’ve liked him. Add him to the list of reasons I’m doin’ this, you know?"

“Yeah,” Sam says, suddenly reminded of how he’d been thinking about things when he was preparing for the final, and he had believed fatal, run at Lilith. “Dean—“

“Sam—“ Dean starts at the same time. “No, Sammy, you gotta let me go first this time.” He’s looking into Sam’s eyes, an earnest, pleading expression on his face, and Sam thinks that right now he’ll do anything, absolutely anything, Dean asks.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want."

Dean chuckles, then coughs and quickly grabs a tissue from the box on his nightstand. There’s blood on it when he finally lowers it from his mouth after the coughing fit ends.

“Jesus,” Sam mutters.

“Yeah, I’m a hot mess,” Dean says with a grin.

“That’s one way of putting it."

“Anyway, Sammy, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I don’t know if it’s part of the trials, or just me having too much time to think about what you said or what. But I want you to know I’m sorry. For what I said, how I treated you. Not just last time we saw each other, either. I just . . . I haven’t done so good at really listening to you, you know? Really letting you be you. And I’m sorry for that, and I wanted to make sure you knew."

 _Who are you and what have you done with my brother_ is what Sam thinks. “Wow, Dean. I . . . I don’t know what to say. That means a lot, man,” is what he says.

“Hey, how about only one of us break the chick flick moments rule at a time, OK?” Dean quips.

“Dude, you’re on your fucking death bed. The chick flick ship has sailed."

“No, man, it’s not the same thing. I’m dying heroically, fighting the good fight, blaze of glory. This is a war movie, not a chick flick."

And just like that the banter is over, because their lives as a war movie is a little too on the nose for joking as far as Sam is concerned.

“So you’re really OK with this? With . . . what’s going to happen?"

“Yeah, man. You’re not gonna try to stop me, are you?"

Sam smiles sadly. “No. It should be your choice. If this is what you want, then . . .” he blinks back tears. “Dammit, Dean, how many times am I gonna have to mourn you?”

The words slip out before he can stop them. He’s not sure how to interpret Dean’s expression, but before he can open his mouth to apologize, Dean says, “Sorry doesn’t really begin to cut it with what I’ve put you through, does it? I kept secrets, I made that deal and made you go through the same shit I went through when Dad made his, I didn’t trust you, I pushed you away. I’ve been, like, the world’s shittiest brother a good half the time, haven’t I? And now I’m gonna leave you all alone again."

“Dean, where is all this coming from?” Sam asks in bewilderment.

“Man, I told you, I’ve had way too much time to think lately. And, well, I have to, uh, purify myself for this last trial. Like, confession. So I guess I’ve been thinking about my sins, and the more I thought about it, the more all the ways I’ve done wrong by you moved up to the top of the list. And I know I always told you and told myself that I was doing it to protect you, but I’m not so sure anymore. I think maybe I was, I don’t know, trying to protect what I thought you were supposed to be instead of what you actually are. Talk about shitty of me."

“Dean,” Sam says softly.

“Don’t try to make me feel better just ‘cause I’m dyin’, Sammy."

Sam can’t stop the tears this time, and one of them falls onto Dean’s hand, lying on top of the blankets. Dean grabs a tissue and dabs awkwardly at Sam’s face.

“Hey now, little brother. My choice, remember? Damn, I wish I’d learned to understand how important that was, like, forever ago."

Sam smiles through his tears. “Better late than never, jackass.”

Dean smirks back at him.

Sam rolls his eyes but lets it go. “So tell me about these trials; Cas didn’t give me the details of what they were."

“Typical, leaving out how fucking awesome I am."

Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean launches into an account of killing a hellhound and sneaking into Hell though a back door in Purgatory.

“Dude,” is all Sam can think to say when Dean finishes.

“Right?"

“So what’s the third trial?"

“To cure a demon."

Sam blinks. “Wait, as in—?"

“Make one human again, yeah. Turns out these Men of Letters geeks figured out how to do it, too, so at the end of the day old grandpa Winchester had pretty good timing, giving me the keys to the kingdom when he did."

That little part of Sam that still, even after everything, wants to believe in a higher power working for the greater good perks up, but he shoves it down because it isn’t going to help at the moment.

“So, what, you just nabbed a random demon and you’re going to make it human again?"

“Not exactly. We actually had a volunteer."

“What? Who?"

“Meg."

“No way."

“I shit you not. Turns out Crowley’s been having her tortured nearly non-stop since he nabbed her at Sucrocorp. She wants revenge, and she isn’t keen on getting shut up in Hell with him. She’s waiting in the dungeon—which we have, by the way—for the party to start."

“Wow."

“Yeah, I know."

“So, how does this cure work?"

Dean tells him.

“Holy shit."

Dean shrugs.

“So, uh, when are you going to start?” Sam asks, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, I was pretty much just waiting to talk to you before getting the show on the road, so . . ."

“So this is it."

“Yeah, I guess so."

They sit in silence for a moment.

“Would you believe I’ve never done the ‘forgive me Father’ thing before?” Dean says eventually.

“Yes."

“Shut up.”

Sam grins, but then he thinks of something and his smile fades. “Do you . . . do you want . . . help?"

Dean avoids his eyes. “Actually I was wondering if maybe . . . can I confess, you know, to you?"

“I’m not a priest, Dean."

“Yeah, but you’re the best person I know. And I think for this one it’s more about the act of confession itself—or at least I think that’s the bullshit Cas was going on about, I tuned him out once he really got going."

Sam shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Yeah, OK. So, is this happening right now, or—?"

“Uh, yeah, sure, might as well get on with it."

Sam swallows. “OK, but first I want to give you something. Well, technically give it back.” He reaches into his pocket, glad he followed his whim to bring it with him, and pulls out the amulet Dean threw away after their disastrous trip to Heaven.

“Jesus, Sammy. Did you . . . did you fish that out of the garbage?” Dean asks, and Sam notices tears building in Dean’s eyes.

He shrugs. “Yeah. I guess I hoped that someday you’d want it back, or that I’d want to give it back to you, and, I don’t know. Maybe now it’s both?” he asks, holding it out.

“Yeah, definitely both, though I definitely don’t deserve it,” Dean says, cupping the strange little figure. Sam lets go of the string, dropping it into Dean’s hand.

“You said sorry, and you want me to hear your confession and—“ Sam clears his throat. _And you’re about to die_ hangs between them.

“If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” Dean says, and slips the amulet over his head. “So, you want to teach me how to do this all formal, or should I just start listing sins?"

“Which do you want to do?"

“Hey, you’re talking to the guy who bought a Spongebob placemat for a seance, remember?"

“Oh my God."

“Language, Sammy."

“Start confessing before I take it out of your ass."

“Like you could."

“Dude, I’m pretty sure a five-year-old could take you right now."

“Whatever."

They both stare at each other, and Sam wonders how much it matters, really, everything that’s ever been wrong between them. No, that’s not it: he knows it matters. It’s just . . . his brother. His stupid asshole brother who always, always greets death with a shit-eating grin. Sam finds himself remembering singing along to Bon Jovi in the Impala several lifetimes ago. He blinks back more tears.

They lock eyes, and Dean begins his confession.

 

Sam walks with Dean to the dungeon, where everything he needs is laid out and ready. Meg is sprawled in a chair in the middle of a devil’s trap.

“Hey boys. Ready to make me a real girl?"

“That’s the plan,” Dean tells her, and takes the first of the sterile syringes laid out for him and draws blood from his arm. Meg tilts her head to expose her neck, and Dean pushes the needle in probably more forcefully than strictly necessary.

“That tickles,” Meg says as he steps back.

“One down, seven to go,” Dean tells her. He and Sam walk out to the library to tell the others that it’s started.

Amelia locks eyes with Sam as soon as they get there, and he can tell that they told her what the consequences of the final trial are. He knows she sees the redness of his eyes, and whatever his other tells are that let her know he isn’t all right. He shrugs minutely, trying to tell her without words that it is what it is.

“It’s the final countdown!” Dean sings, breaking the tension.

“Dude,” Sam and Kevin groan at the same time.

“My last night on earth, my rules,” Dean says.

Cas cocks his head. “Does this mean you will be pursuing sexual intercourse? Because I think that might mar the requisite sanctity."

There is a moment of silence, and then everyone starts laughing at once. Sam restrains himself to a brief chuckle, mostly for Cas’ sake, but Benny and Dean are both bent double and wiping at their eyes. But then Dean starts coughing, and the laughter ceases as quickly as it began while Linda quickly gets Dean a tissue.

It’s a strange night. In the hours between injections, they sit in the library, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking quietly. Dean apologizes to Amelia for thinking badly of her and asks her about her life. As the night progresses, the hours in the library somehow morph into a kind of reminiscence, with everyone taking it in turn to share stories, all of which happen to feature Dean. Benny is the best story teller, but Sam has the best stories, and he brings out as many funny or embarrassing ones as he can.

And every hour, Sam goes with Dean to administer the injections. For the first several, Meg is her usual cocky, snarky self. But at the sixth hour, something changes.

“I’m sorry,” she says as they turn to go. They both turn back.

“Come again?” Dean says.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “For what I’ve done to you both over the years. Killing your friends, possessing Sam, kidnapping your dad, all of it. I’m sorry. Do you think . . . do you think there’s any hope for me? Once my human life is over? Or will I just go back to hell and become a demon all over again?"

She looks sad and desperate, and she’s been an ally for a while now, and Sam can’t help the wave of compassion that washes through him.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Dean says impassively, and turns to leave again. Sam wonders what he’s thinking, but does not ask.

The final two hours slide by. “I’ll see you all on the other side,” Dean says. “And it better be later rather than sooner.” He shakes hands with Amelia, Linda, and Kevin, and hugs Benny and Cas. Sam, as at every previous hour, accompanies him to the dungeon.

They pause just outside the door. “Sorry I’m a jackass,” Dean says, trying to smile.

“Fuck you,” Sam says, and pulls him into a hug. Eventually they break apart, and Sam follows Dean in, standing behind him as he says the modified exorcism. When Dean slices into his palm, Sam sees the glowing power; he doesn’t try to stop the tears that flow freely down his face as Dean puts his palm to Meg’s lips and she drinks. The brothers watch as she convulses, gripping the edge of her chair. The light glowing in Dean’s arms grows brighter and spreads to his entire body. Sam grips his shoulders firmly in one final act of support and solidarity.

There is a great crack like thunder, Meg slumps in her chair, and the light streams out of Dean and away. Dean collapses against Sam, who gently lowers him to the floor, where he cradles Dean’s head in his lap, stroking Dean's hair with one hand and checking for a pulse with the other. He finds none. His brother is gone.

It’s over.

Sam is only vaguely aware of Meg coming to, getting up, and quietly leaving the room. He thinks maybe he’ll just sit here forever, holding Dean’s body. Sounds like a good plan.

He’s not sure how much time passes before Amelia comes in with Riot and sits down next to him without a word, rubbing his back. Riot sniffs curiously at Dean’s corpse and whines softly.

Amelia and Riot. Right. That’s why he isn’t going to sit on the floor with his brother’s body for the rest of his life. He has a life with Amelia and Riot in a small town in Texas.

It’s when he accepts that, some time soon, he will have to get up off the floor, have to take care of Dean’s body, that the tears come. Great wracking sobs that bend him double, tears dripping onto Dean’s face. _How many times am I gonna have to mourn you?_ he’d asked. The answer is both “once” and “infinite,” because he will never finish this mourning, never finish missing his brother; that’s not how it works with them.

Except that a woman who understands grief, the way it rears up to swallow you whole just when you think you’re finally past it, is rubbing his back and not saying a word, and a dog who is his is licking his hand, and Ashley who lives across the street is thinking about applying to Stanford, and Everett’s dad is almost done with his treatments, and he’s turning into a decent cook and . . .

Maybe this time will be different.


	3. Epilogue

Benny and the Trans decide to stay at the bunker, though Linda makes it clear that Kevin _will_ be going to college as soon as possible. If he wants to become a Man of Letters after that, fine, but by then Linda will have changed the name to something less sexist. The way Garth and Linda talk, it sounds like she wants to make the place the new hub for hunting lore and coordination. Sam’s pretty sure she’ll get her way.

Cas returns to Heaven, though he promises to check in every once in a while. From the little Sam gathers, things are settling up there, the angels finally figuring out how to govern themselves in a way that’s good for them and humanity.

Sam, Amelia, and Riot take the Impala home. Sam digs all the cases of Dean’s mullet rock cassettes out of the glove box, puts Dean’s ashes in them, makes sure they’re well sealed, and returns them to the glove box. Amelia asks, and he tells her, and she smiles.

Sam gets up in the morning and misses Dean, goes to work and misses Dean, comes home and misses Dean.

But he also cooks and cleans and walks and plays with Riot and talks to Amelia and laughs with Amelia and drinks with Amelia and makes love with Amelia. And they have friends they go out with or invite over and he has work that might technically be menial but is also satisfying because he fixes things, and isn’t that all he ever wanted, really? Maybe in a less literal way, sure, but still. And he’s thinking more and more seriously about going back to school, because really, thirty isn’t too late at all. And he reads books and watches Netflix and the baristas at the coffee shop know his usual order.

One morning Sam wakes up, and he doesn’t miss Dean until he gets in the Impala to go to work.

This time is different. This time, he knows he’s going to be OK.


End file.
